


everything, to nothing

by totalsafety



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, modern hs au ofc but v little specifics it's just general mostly, spoiler alert patroclus dies that's the major char death ok, this is achilles mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 10:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4873756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/totalsafety/pseuds/totalsafety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus dies via sports injury (bear with me because I'm weak for these boys on a lacrosse team like his spine shatters or smt idk medical schemdical amirite) via Hector ofc and Achilles knows all too well everything is v different</p>
            </blockquote>





	everything, to nothing

Achilles cannot tell the difference, at first. He doesn’t remember until morning haziness gives way to reality. From there, it is torture. 

Everything he does is different. Everything. His shoulders are always cold, but not as cold as his hands. His teeth are constantly grinding, making his jaw shift every two seconds. He’s thinking about Patroclus all the time. The team made a generous donation of cards and gifts, but he broke into the neighbor’s garage to use their tile saw. He left the remains there. He doesn’t want them. They didn’t know him, or Patroclus. Not like they knew each other. 

It was exponentially harder to get through the days after the funeral. Achilles was there until night had cloaked the sky. Looking at the stars made him furious, so he viciously took off every bit of steam ironed, overpriced, silk-lined **gods** know what until he was down to briefs and socks. Breathing hard, he examines his hands. Empty. He scoffs. 

Head bowed, he takes a deep breath, shoulders caved in with the burden he carries. He lifts his head towards the east, a hill and a half until six feet under turns into wildflowers. Exhale, inhale, run. Sprinting towards the field, pebbles and twigs rustle and crack under his feet. As soon as his hands can reach, he begins to rip the flowers straight out of the ground. They’re pulled so violently, every wildflower is completely uprooted. 

He stands in the middle of the field, hands on his hips and breathing even harder than before. All around him are decimated flowers, strewn about with broken petals and crushed stems. He rotates, surveying the work he’s done. Achilles sinks to his knees and sobs, clutching at his hair, thinking about how Patroclus would’ve just laughed at this impulsive petty. 

You’re not alone, Odysseus says. And Chiron and Briseis. But they all know the truth. Every last goddamn one of them. 

There’s not a void, because that would entail a negative force. A void means there’s a vacuum, a pull of everything you’ve ever known into some undefined, unreachable place. That is not what is happening to Achilles. What Achilles feels is stillness. There is no force. There is no motion, no movement, no energy in anything he touches. Not without Patroclus. Achilles used to drink life in gulps. Life was the firing squad, and Achilles had all the power to stand with sure feet and open arms, splitting bullets in two before they could pierce him. That’s the power Achilles felt, the power he had. The power Patroclus gave him. Now, gods, what a joke. Now, he can’t do anything but remember what it felt like to be healthy, to be whole. And that’s the worst part. 

There’s people who tolerate pain because they know nothing else. Those are the strong. Those people? Those are the ones that will claw their way to happiness once they are given their first sip. And they will never stop. They will claw to the core of the Earth to keep themselves from having to experience pain again. Once we are dealt a better hand, it is all the more difficult to justify why we were ever dealt anything less. 

Close that curtain. What’s left? The other half: people who tolerate pain because they are shocked it exists. People that are bestowed with immense strength because destiny has marked them for regality. These people? These are the ones that will claw their way through pain for vengeance. Fuck happiness, they say. Fuck happiness, if this is what it feels like to be without it. And may everyone around me be soaked in misery as well. 

Euphoria is for the weak, he says. I cannot choose happiness. Not anymore. Not when rage and fury and indignant devotion consumes me like this. I will not choose joy, because it will always have the potential to be taken away. 

Instead, he will choose havoc. And chaos. And severity. He has no mercy, and he will act accordingly. His actions have no consequences, because he cannot sink to depths lower than this— lower than heartbreak. Because, for him, there is no possibility of happiness unless his heart stops beating. 

Because, for him, only in the lowest of realms will he find his happiness again.


End file.
